


Primary School, Primary Life

by orphan_account



Series: Two Brothers Holmes [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Bullying, Corporal Punishment, Education, Gen, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Non consensual spanking, Non severe spanking, Primary School, School, Slipper, Spanking, fight, mild spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has just started primary school, and he doesn't exactly get on with his teacher. He also has a father who loves cleanliness and a brother who is sometimes nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primary School, Primary Life

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for my long absence from the Sherlock fandom! I've been quite busy with life (one of my sisters got married, one of my brothers got arrested, it's been interesting!). Oh, and the buffer-polish story is a real story extracted from my own childhood...it ended a lot less nicely for me, though! You might be able to tell that this is two short oneshots smushed together, but I think they do fit reasonable well. Just a warning, too, because I've had a couple of comments from people upset with it - Sherlock gets slippered in this. I do not promote or condone corporal punishment against minors, but it is necessary in the context of the story and the context of British society in the mid to late eighties and very early nineties.

Whenever Mr Holmes engaged in a cleaning spree, he _really_ went for it. No cushion would go unturned, no carpet unvacuumed, no surface unwiped.

The rest of the Holmes family found it quite unnecessary, but they put up with it for two reasons. One, Mr Holmes was generally the mildest and kindest member of their family and to say anything would probably upset him, and two, it was very funny to see what ended up where. Once, Mrs Holmes had opened the fridge to find a bottle of milk and had pulled out a sofa cover and three of her best embroidered cushion covers.

“All the books say that if you cool it before washing it, it makes it wash more deeply!” Mr Holmes had explained to a deeply unimpressed Mrs Holmes, who had removed them all from the fridge and thrown them at him, a cross expression on her face.

“Sweetie?” Mrs Holmes asked, in an incredibly calm voice.

“Yes, love?” Mr Holmes replied, eyebrows knitted with bemusement.

“Are you aware that we have a washing line outside?”

Mr Holmes hesitantly nodded, staring at his wife.

“And that it is currently October, and only a few degrees outside?”

“Yes?”

“And it hasn't rained in a week?”

“Yes...”

Mrs Holmes smiled and patted her husband on the shoulder. “Perhaps you'd consider conducting your strange experiments with temperature outside, then, not in the fridge where all of our food is.”

Mr Holmes felt very much like he had just been told off, but nodded meekly and took the pile of fabric outside, pinning it up in the icy wind and smiling to himself at his wife.

* * *

 

Later that day, when Mycroft and Sherlock arrived back from their respective schools, Mr Holmes was very keen for them to go and play in their rooms or outside.

“I've almost gotten the living room – I just need to buffer-polish the sofas and do a thorough vacuum of the carpets. Play upstairs for a while.” While his words were phrased as a command, they sounded slightly pleading: he was well aware that bouncy five year old Sherlock would be very unlikely to stay quietly in his room for several hours. Sherlock was already halfway up to his room, however: ever since he had started school he had been increasingly withdrawn. Mycroft nodded at his father, shifting his schoolbag over his shoulder properly.

“I'll make sure that he's occupied, father, don't worry.”

Mr Holmes smiled at his oldest son, before ruffling his hair. “You're a good boy, Mikey.”

Mycroft nodded with a grimace at the use of his old nickname. Still, 'Mikey' was better than his mother's infuriating habit of calling him 'Moo', a nickname from when he was a very small child unable to say his own name.“Indeed. Are we going to eat dinner in the garden tonight?”

Mr Holmes nodded vigorously. “That's a good idea! Then we can keep the dining room clean, at least for a day!”

As Mycroft ascended the stairs, smiling slightly at his ridiculous father, he contemplated how to approach Sherlock. Clearly, he was very unhappy at school, just as Mycroft himself had been. Sherlock had _never_ been this quiet before. What could he say to him, though? With a sigh and a plan to wing it, he rapped sharply on the door to Sherlock's bedroom.

“Come in, Mycroft.” came the exasperated response, and Mycroft heard the sound of a book slamming. Upon entering, he found Sherlock sat glumly on his bed glowering down at a school book, a stubby pencil clutched in his hand.

“What's wrong, brother mine?” Mycroft asked, taking care to soften his usually harsh tones. Sherlock was only five, after all, and he had a certain talent for tantrums if he was upset.

“My _stupid_ teacher Miss Thornton has given me a hundred lines - 'I must not be cheeky' – because I refused to do the bloody 'literacy' work because I can already read and it was just learning letters!”

Mycroft took a second to fully absorb Sherlock's convoluted sentence before responding. “She gave you lines...even though she doesn't believe that you can write?”

Sherlock smiled a little. “The irony wasn't lost on me. I think she's doing it as a test, and if I don't do them she'll assume I was lying and probably punish me further.”

“That sounds like the Miss Thornton that taught me.” Mycroft agreed, sitting down beside Sherlock.

“You had her?” Sherlock asked with interest. “I don't imagine she liked you very much.”

“No. Not at all. I spent the vast majority of my time in her class stood in a corner for supposed impertinence, and the other time doing work far below my capability. She even threatened to smack me a dozen times. Mother and Father wrote to the school, but nothing happened.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Should I do the lines?”

Mycroft nodded. “You'll only get a slippering if you don't, Sherlock, or a few whacks with a ruler.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I'd rather be slippered than spend  _hours_ of labour on these ridiculous lines.”

“She'll slipper you AND make you do the lines, Sherlock. Trust me, I saw it happen to other people later on in the year. Just get them over with.”

“It's so _stupid_ , though – all she has to do is give me work that is more suitable for me, and she won't! It's lazy!”

Sherlock was looking dangerously close to a lip-wobbling, arms-folded tantrum, so Mycroft carefully picked up his book, a smile on his face. “Do them in your best copperplate printing. If I do half of them – our copperplate is practically the same because you're quite neat and I'm not – they'll be over with quickly, and you'll get to annoy her.”

A laugh escaped from Sherlock's lips, despite the tears which were now threatening to escape from his eyes. “If you do the first half, mine'll look a bit messier but she'll assume that's because my hand was tired.”

Slipping off of the bed, Mycroft headed towards the door. “I'll be with you shortly, Sherlock, with fifty lines.”

* * *

 

As Sherlock completed his basic mathematics homework, the lines completely done, he began to grow bored. It was very simple, but so monotonous and apparently endless – seven whole sheets full of sums that got as difficult as 'seven plus four'. Ideas began to creep into his head on how to occupy his time. He was fairly sure that he would get a phone call or letter home from his teacher soon, a punishment that she appeared to think was the worst thing she could dole out, and so he wanted to get into his parents good-books well in advance. What was it that father needed doing? A buffer-polish on the leather sofas? He could do that! He'd seen a buffer-polish before – a white, powdery polish was rubbed into the sofa and then dusted off again, and it left the surface shiny and soft. He thought he knew where the powder was, too – he'd seen an unlabelled bag of white powder in one of the cupboards in the kitchen, and so that would probably do.

“Darling? Do you need help in the office?” he suddenly heard his father call, after a resounding crash had issued from the study. When a muffled 'Yes!' came back, Sherlock decided to take his opportunity to be good and help people. Slipping downstairs, he quickly located the unlabelled, unassuming blue and white bag and entered the living room. He decided to do the armchair first, as it would be the fastest to do. With no hesitation, he tipped half of the bag onto the supple brown surface, smearing it around with his hands and watching in satisfaction as it seemed to embed itself into the leather. For once, he wasn't doing something wrong! After a few seconds, he glanced around for the brush needed to get rid of the powder. Last time he'd observed it, mummy had just brushed it off onto the carpet and then vacuumed it up, so that was what he'd do, too. With great sweeping movements, he pushed it off and felt some pleasure as it clouded up around him...

“SHERLOCK!”

The next thing that Sherlock felt was himself being picked up and pulled away from the armchair. He was spun around to face his father, who looked absolutely furious.

“What on _earth_ were you doing?”

“Buffer-polishing the sofa.” Sherlock confidently replied, a smile on his face. “I wanted to help you!”

Mr Holmes closed his eyes slowly. “You...Sherlock, that's flour. I already have the bag of powder polish in my bedroom so that I can do the leather band on mummy and I's bed.”

Before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft burst into the room, shortly followed by Mrs Holmes.

“What's wrong?” Mycroft demanded, before focusing on the flour covered chair. “Oh, Sherlock...”

There was a moment of silence between them all, with Sherlock becoming more and more frightened, before Mr Holmes picked his youngest up into his arms and hugged him tightly.

“Thank you for trying to help, Sherlock, but please don't in future? If I need help, I'll ask.”

To say that Sherlock was surprised would be an understatement. Shocked would be more like it. After a couple of weeks of school, and constant punishment for things he hadn't done or because he could already do things, he had expected the worst. As such, he not only tolerated the cuddle but snuggled into his father, before suddenly bursting into tears and running past his concerned mother.

“What's wrong with him?” Mrs Holmes asked, looking a little frightened.

“It's school.” Mycroft replied. “His teacher is bullying him.”

* * *

 

The next morning, three Holmes's marched into the local primary school instead of one. Sherlock, closely accompanied by his parents. They were a little early, and went straight to his classroom, where Miss Thornton was laying out books.

“Hello?”

Miss Thornton glanced up. “Hello. I'm Miss Thornton, Sherlock's teacher – are you his parents?”

“We are.” Mr Holmes confirmed. “We have a few concerns about how you're treating Sherlock.”

Miss Thornton's thin eyebrows shot up her forehead. “If you're annoyed that I gave him lines yesterday, it was entirely deserved. He claimed that he could  _read,_ and not for the first time – obviously he can't, he's five! I wanted to prove a point.”

Mr and Mrs Holmes stared back, stony faced, while Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably.

“Sherlock has been able to read since he was two and a half.” Mrs Holmes icily replied, before patting Sherlock's thin shoulder. “Do you have a book with you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded, pulling an old Mathematics dictionary from his bag. Without prompting, he opened a random page and began to read.

“Locus. A locus is the line of a path along which a point moves so as to satisfy some given conditions.”

Sherlock placed the book back into his bag, and joined his parents in looking expectantly at Miss Thornton.

“Okay, so perhaps he can read. But really, his _attitude_ is abominable – just like his brother!”

Mrs and Mr Holmes both burst out laughing at that.

“Mycroft?” Mrs Holmes exclaimed. “The headmaster said he was one of the best boys who ever attended this school!”

Miss Thornton's nose wrinkled. “Look, I'll find some harder work for... _him._ ” she added as much venom as possible to the word 'him'. “Don't act like he's a little Prince, though. Your son is incredibly rude and disobedient.”

“We're aware of that.” Mrs Holmes smoothly replied. “He gets his bottom smacked often enough that we know that.”

“Mummy!” Sherlock exclaimed, blushing slightly until his cap of curly hair. Before Miss Thornton could reply, Mr and Mrs Holmes turned on their heels and left, pulling Sherlock along with them. However, the trouble with Miss Thornton was not over.

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Miss Thornton?”

At his father's advice, Sherlock was being a little angel to Miss Thornton. The only difference was that he was bringing in his own work to school to complete once he'd done the easy things provided to him, thus making sure that he was stimulated and happy.

“Go with Janet and fetch the paints from the Year Six classroom – Kian is away, so we need a temporary paint monitor.”

From what Sherlock could gather, his parents had also made an excursion to see the headmaster, who had apologized for Miss Thornton (“She's not used to clever students, most of them go to schools with better reputations, I'm afraid) and had promised to talk to her. This meant that he had been trusted with a lot more in the classroom, and he'd only brought home a couple of pages of lines in the week since the meetings.

As soon as they left the classroom, Janet stuck her tongue out at him.

“I don't like you, my mum says you're a bad influence.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Your dad has a crush on my mum, so I don't think what I do really matters.”

“Does not!” Janet immediately shouted. Sherlock grinned, and while Janet began to squeal at him he quickly dodged into the classroom full of eleven year olds and fetched the paints, ignoring her now-whispered protests. When they re-reached their own classroom, Sherlock gave her a glittering smile.

“I think you've got a crush on me too.”

Before Janet could punch him, Sherlock dodged into the classroom.

* * *

 

_Splat!_

Sherlock jumped violently as a splotch of yellow poster paint landed in the middle of his watercolour painting. He wasn't any better at painting than most young children, honestly, but he loved watching the tightly packed tins of dried paint turn into delicate stripes of colour. Turning to his side, he saw Janet, grinning from ear to ear.

“I don't like you, Sherlock, and I never will.”

The brutal honesty of children never really bothered Sherlock – in fact, he revelled in it. They were _so_ transparent and _so_ easy to analyse for weaknesses. He was, however, furious at his ruined painting. Pushing his paintbrush deeply into the shallow well of black, watery paint, he flicked it towards Janet, smiling widely when it flecked all over her dress and hair. Janet stared down at her dress before staring at Sherlock. In moments, her eyes widened and filled with tears.

“Miss Thornton!” she screeched, tears pouring down her cheeks that Sherlock could tell were real. Why oh _why_ were girls so sensitive? Miss Thornton quickly approached the girl and listened to her sniffled version of events, before sending her off to the bathroom to clean herself up.

“Corner, Sherlock, now.”

The corner didn't get any more interesting in the three hours he spent there.

* * *

 

A few weeks later, after a half term holiday, Sherlock was on his way to school with a backpack full of foreign sweets – he had gone on holiday and his parents had insisted on buying them for everyone in his class, even smelly Janet who had thrown paint at him. Before he could even reach school, however, an older boy of perhaps nine years old stepped in front of him, arms crossed.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” he asked, his chubby cheeks wobbling.

Sherlock shook his head, pushing on a confused expression. “No? I'm...Logan Richards.”

The boy shrugged. “If you see a boy called Sherlock, tell him to watch out. He's been really nasty to my sister all year, and when I find him I'm going to kill him.”

Sherlock nodded. “I will, don't worry.”

As the boy loped off, Sherlock continued his walk, this time keeping one fist clenched and ready in case of attack. The only girl he'd ever been mean to was Janet, so this boy was Janet's brother. Evidently, she'd rather over-exaggerated his treatment of her, though, as he'd only ever retaliated. The walk itself went seamlessly, and soon he was in the playground, ready for the school day to begin.

“Sherlock! What you got in the bag? Is it pictures of your boyfriend?”

The voice belonged to a much older boy, one perhaps ten or eleven. Evidently, he thought that homophobia was the _height_ of comedy...he was obviously an imbecile, and probably a friend of Janet's brother or perhaps another older brother. With a sigh, Sherlock lugged his heavy bag further over his shoulder before carrying on through the playground. However, after a few seconds someone grabbed his shoulder. The boy from earlier.

“You _are_ Sherlock!” he exclaimed, before punching the youngest Holmes so hard that he went flying down onto the tarmac. After a second of dazed confusion, Sherlock leapt up and returned the punch hard enough that blood immediately began to dribble from the assailants nose. Seconds later, a crowd began to swell around them, and the age-old call of,

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” rang out.

“Is Janet your sister, by any chance?” Sherlock asked the boy, neatly dodging a punch to the stomach before kicking him hard in the groin.

“Yeah, and she's fucking upset at how you treat her! Calling her names – she's a little girl, you prick! She came home crying to me and our brother twice last week!” This time, Sherlock couldn't avoid the punch that came flying at him, getting him hard in the chest and momentarily astounding him. However, as the boy took a moment to nurse his sore crotch, Sherlock stepped around him and leapt onto his back, yanking his hair and hitting his face. It perhaps wasn't the wisest of moves, as the boy easily tipped him off over his head, but it gave Sherlock a few seconds to prepare himself for the next move.

The next move that didn't come.

Two teachers had evidently heard the scuffle, two that Sherlock didn't recognize, and each of them grabbed a boy by the waist, dragging them away from each other.

* * *

 

“I am absolutely disgusted that two boys are fighting, especially involving two boys with ages so different! Sherlock, I understand that Barry attacked you first – is this true?”

The headmaster was stood over them, arms folded crossly. He was evidently annoyed at having his peaceful morning disturbed. Sherlock, who didn't much care for the convention of not being a sneak, nodded vigorously.

“His sister and I have had a few disagreements in the past – nothing particularly serious, I've had worse fights with my brother, we both just strongly dislike each other. However, Barry apparently feels the need to protect his sister, and using a standard police brutality style to attack someone weaker, he got me without a single thought for my disadvantage except for how he could use it to his advantage.”

Barry didn't argue – it was true, after all. The headmaster observed them keenly for a second.

“Barry, since you started it and you got into several fights last year too, as I recall, you will have six with the slipper. I'm astonished that you attacked someone half your age! Sherlock, being as you're only in your first year here and you _were_ acting in self defence – though you shouldn't have hit him – you will have three. Barry, get into position.”

With a heavy sigh, the rotund Barry bent over the desk, presenting his fat bottom as a target. The headmaster made short work of it: six resounding whacks later, Barry was hobbling out of the office followed by a promise of the cane next time, his hands clutching his bottom. Sherlock knew that as soon as he saw another pupil, his hands would fall away and he would walk with a swagger, pretending that he was barely hurt.

“Now you, Sherlock.”

To Sherlock's embarrassment, he wasn't tall enough to bend over the desk. Cringing silently, he looked inquiringly up at the headmaster, awaiting instruction. Although he knew it was highly unlikely, he hoped that the headmaster decided to cancel the punishment because he was just so small and (in his mother's words), 'adorable'.

“Hands on my chair, then.”

Apparently luck was not with Sherlock.

As Sherlock bent, he decided that the fastest way to get through the slippering (something he was already intimately familiar with due to his mother) would be to deduce the headmaster.

_Whack!_

His shoes were unpolished, and had a grease spot on them-oh god, that hurt. Was he a drinker, then? Sherlock stamped his foot at the sting, but focused on the deductions.

_Whack!_

The laces were fraying – perhaps the shoes were second hand? That supported the theory that he was a drinker, alcohol would waste all of his money... “Ouch!”

_Whack!_

This time, there were no deductions. Sherlock leapt up and clutched his bottom, acutely aware that the headmaster slippered far harder than his mother ever did.

“Off you go, Sherlock, and try and avoid any more trouble.”

* * *

 

As soon as Sherlock left the office, he headed straight for the toilets. He was desperate to rub his sore bottom, but he couldn't do so in front of anyone. The teasing would be even more merciless than it already was. Slipping into the cubicle, he began furiously rubbing the seat of his shorts, glad of a chance to reduce the sting even slightly. Suddenly, an idea, an incredibly unhygienic idea, came to him, and he _had_ to try it. Yanking down his shorts and underwear and taking a moment to admire the dark pink ovals that the headmaster had expertly painted on, he plonked himself onto the lavatory and flushed it, feeling much like a character in a cartoon who had had their tail set on fire but had quickly sat in a bucket of water.

The relief was tremendous.

Cool water splashing up and flicking all over his bottom instantly stopped some of the stinging, and he smiled to himself at his fast solution. They didn't mockingly call him 'Sherlock the Genius' for nothing! Allowing himself another flush before he got up and wiped himself, he was glad that the surface sting was practically gone. While there would be a certain amount of under-burn during his first few classes, he would be able to sit still easily, thus protecting himself from any further punishment from Miss Thornton. Thank _goodness_. He could cope with one punishment, but two in fast succession would be too much!

* * *

 

When Sherlock arrived home (along with Mycroft, who he had caught up with), he was surprised to find his mother standing crossly in the garden, arms folded.

“Which one of us is in trouble?” he asked Mycroft as soon as he noticed, still a good two hundred metres from the lovely old cottage. Mycroft shrugged.

“Probably you. What have you done _now_?”

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. “If I were to be slippered by the headmaster, would they inform mummy and father?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft told him, before shaking his head. “What did you do?”

“I was attacked, and defended myself. I got slippered for it.”

Mycroft whistled in. “Good luck, brother mine, for you may need it.”

As they entered the garden, their mother pulled Mycroft in for a quick hug before turning to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, can you explain to me why you thought it was acceptable to fight with another boy?” she asked him in a dangerous voice, arms folding back together again. Before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft stepped in.

“Mummy, he's being bullied! All of the older children are horrible to him, and this boy attacked him. Sherlock had to try and escape, he'd have been beaten to a pulp!”

Sherlock smiled inwardly at Mycroft's clever manipulation, as well as the fact that he had stepped in to help him – calling their mother 'mummy' would definitely calm her down somewhat, as would his slightly tenuous claims. Their mother observed them closely, and Mycroft spoke again.

“Don't you remember how badly I was bullied, mummy? I was bullied for being fat and ginger and clever, Sherlock is bullied for being scrawny and a little bit rude and clever. He can't really help it.”

Mrs Holmes watched them for a few seconds more, before suddenly hugging Sherlock.

“Is this true?” she asked him, one hand ruffling his curly hair. He nodded into her shoulder, mouthing a thank-you to Mycroft who gave a curt nod back before entering the house, an effect ruined by the fact that he reached into his pocket and pulled out a biscuit whilst walking.

 


End file.
